Our relationship with our parents is something that, at times, is impossible to assess. They are our world, what and who we know better than anyone else, when we are small.But sometimes, they are not who they should be for us.And sometimes, it takes not just time, but the realization of loss on their part before they are able to change.

My Dad was an alcoholic. He never bothered to try to hide it. I was making his martinis and bloody mary’s by the time I was five and learned to make a “hot toddy” before my 10th birthday. I knew that every Friday we’d go out to dinner, but we wouldn’t really be going out to dinner- we’d be going to the bar that just happened to also have a restaurant attached to it. And my siblings and I would spend the evening in the kitchen with the cook while my Dad drank with the owner. I remember so many nights of falling asleep on the pool table, in the kitchen, or under the tables. I remember begging to go sleep in the car, but not being allowed to because “that’s not legal.” He had demons inside him that I didn’t understand until I married someone who would later be taken over by similar demons of war, pain, and loss.

It was only when my Dad was in his shop that he was sober. He was a woodworker. He built houses. But he also did detail work- cabinets, framing, crown moulding etc. He was an artist with wood. Occasionally he would let me come into his shop and he would build things with me. I remember the smell of sawdust, that sometimes made me cough, and the feel of the ear protection on my head. The safety goggles that were too big for my face and made everything look a little bit funny.

It didn’t matter though. When my Dad was there, when he was present, it was like the whole world shone through him. He was funny, and deep, and profound. He talked to me like I was an adult, and like I mattered. He listened.

Every spring we would build birdhouses. He would patiently teach me how to measure and cut them. How to sand the wood, glue it, and then nail it shut. He talked to me about the importance of helping animals that would have a harder time without these houses. We had deep discussions about life cycles, and what kinds of birds we could expect at our houses. I talked about being sad that the birdhouses would sit empty all winter, and he would smile and talk about the beauty in them just being there, waiting. How the birds knew they could count on us and would return year after year.

My feelings would come out in my work. Early in my childhood, the nails would be crooked from excited hammering. During my teen years, I hammered too hard because my emotions ruled the show and I would split the wood. He wouldn’t say anything, he’d just hand me a new board to measure and cut. My painting colors went from bright and cheerful, to dark and melancholy. The angst years- he called them - once I outgrow them. Once the birdhouse was finished, we would walk around the property to choose the perfect spot. Then I would lean down to the top of the birdhouse and whisper my intention for it. I didn’t know that was what I was doing at the time, but it was. Sometimes it was as simple as “Please don’t let the bottom fall” “I hope you are warm for the baby birds” or “ I hope you protect the babies from owls”. As I got older, my intentions grew deeper. “Love here, and bring peace.” And one time after a bitter year with my parents, I copied Jenny’s words from Forest Gump “Make me a bird so I can fly far far away from here.” I moved out the following winter.

My Dad stopped drinking after my son was born. I told him if he wanted anything to do with his grandchildren, they couldn’t live a life like mine. The summer before he died, he took my kids out to his shop and he wanted to make birdhouses. Except now, he was in his 80s, and his fingers weren’t so nimble anymore. Instead, he sat on his stool and guided me in teaching my children to make birdhouses. He talked to them about the power in making something with your own hands and giving it to the world. To see it’s beauty outside your window. To watch a pair of birds make a home, and create a family, then watch them leave only to return the following year. To watch their growth, and progress, and sometimes the tragedy that happens. He talked about the circle of life, and stories about me when I was younger. They listened intently as they measured, cut, sanded, nailed, and painted their birdhouses. Then he spent over an hour with them walking around his property looking for the perfect place for each one of them to hang their creation. He walked a lot slower than I remembered him walking with me of course, but the journey was the same. I don’t know what intentions they whispered into their birdhouses, but I hope they came true.

The importance of the birdhouse wasn’t in the product, though I am sure the birds enjoyed their new home choices every year, it was in the conversations, and the time. It was learning to slow my body, to think methodically. Learning to measure twice, and cut once. It was all of those tiny moments of lessons that I didn’t fully appreciate until I was older. It was the intention I whispered into it before I hung it. ​

Our lives create so many different chances for milestones, not only for ourselves, but for our children and the children of our dear friends.How do you mark the miles? The days? The years? The growth?

Today I struggled to watch as my youngest daughter’s training wheels came off. Since my children are schooled at home, we don’t have the ‘off to school” milestone. Instead, signs of growing up are different, and distinct for each child. The first lost tooth, they day they learn to tie their shoes, or write their names, the day they learn to read. Or, like today, the day the training wheels come off.

Growing up happens at different rates at our house. Some master these skills at four, some not until they are closer to nine. Some master a first skill at four, or five, and the last skill at nine, or even ten. I love having them at home and seeing them flourish at their own rate. Sometimes I worry when they struggle, but the lightbulb moment when it all clicks into place is one I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I love watching the older kids work with the younger kids. Their patience sometimes far exceeds mine when reading the same story for the hundredth time, or teaching a new skill. My oldest daughter spends countless hours teaching the younger girls gymnastics. My middle daughter helps them bake and reads to them. My son builds with them, or cheers them on when their confidence falters.

The younger kids also teach the older kids things. Patience. Excitement over small discoveries. The little girls are so full of life and energy, that it brings the older kids out of their teenage attitudes to play with them. The moment I walk in the room and see my older girls dressed up for a tea party, or my son in full on crazy dance mode reminds me of why I do this.

I’m watching my youngest wobble and fall, over and over again. Her older siblings never fail her. They cheer her on, kiss her scrapes, and take turns being the one to keep her balanced. Sometimes she makes it less than a foot, sometimes she makes it halfway down the street. I stand back, capturing memories, and watching them all grow, right before my eyes.

Most years I go all out for the holidays. We start the day after Thanksgiving by putting up the tree and lights, and the season begins from there.

December 6th we celebrate St Nicholas Day where the kids find oranges, nuts and gold coins (both chocolate and real) in their shoes.

National Cookie/Bake Cookie Day changes every year, so we bake cookies for an entire week, making krumkake, fattigmann, rosettes, sandbakkels, and traditional sugar cookies. The kids press, fill, and decorate mounds of cookies. Then we give them away to friends and family, and of course stuff our bellies full of them as well.

We celebrate National Hot Chocolate Day on December 13th with a Hot Chocolate bar and movies. Usually Polar Express and Santa Claus (Not the Tim Allen version).

December 21st is Solstice. Depending on where we are it is full of fireworks and fun, and we make Wassail, sing songs, and play board games into the wee hours of the morning.

Toward the end of the month we find our Yule log. We take turns attaching notes, carving, or whispering our hopes and dreams for the upcoming year to the log. We burn it on Dec 25th.

December 31st is our anniversary and we usually have a huge seafood dump/Lobster boil. It is chaotic and crazy and everyone goes away from the table messy and full.

This year... we didn't do any of these things. Last year my Dad passed away between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so I struggled with the holiday season. This year, we are moving in two days. Our December has looked like boxes packed up and a trailer ready to be loaded. We will be in an area that we can't do our seafood dump next week. I can't find my holiday joy this year. Our tree is made of felt, and it is adorable and I will always remember this year, for all of it's ups and downs, but it isn't the same.

I am crawling towards 2017 with trepidation, and summoning all of the hope I can muster.

Oh, Devin.Devin was the second of us, after Tricia.Devin was at the first retreat, I thought at first she was another retreat goer, but she was there mostly to work. For us. She and I have shared many a room on retreats we've worked together now, she's been part of every training we've had at Her War, Her Voice. She is one of our rocks.This is her story of why she's stayed.

When Melissa asked the question of what brought us to Her War, I started thinking. And thinking. And thinking some more. I don't remember. It is one of those times where you look back and think you must have always been there, because you don't remember. That's how it felt for me. The moment someone else said "Me too." I was home. Everything prior to that just fell away. I don't remember why I came, or how I got here. Maybe it popped up on my newsfeed, maybe someone recommended it, I truly don't know. I just know I found a home here.

I stay because of you all. Every person who writes in, every one of you who is willing to share your story, or nod along. Every time someone else says "me too." Each one of you impacts my life in such amazing ways. This team made up of amazing women, they are my family. We have each-others backs for support, fronts to protect, and sides to commiserate or celebrate.

This page, this group, all of you, we are a family. Our stories are different, our paths are different, but they all cross here. This is where the story changes for me. HWHV is just a name, but the intention behind it, is a family.

I struggle with striving to be perfect.This has led to me not wanting to challenge my boundaries. Because if I don’t push my boundaries, I can’t fail. I also can’t grow.So much in life is only available to us when we push past our comfort zone. When we take that step off of what we think is a cliff, when we dare to ask “Can I?” and then do it.This month, Devin’s decided to give a good, hard look at what her boundaries are, and how to stretch them mentally, emotionally, and physically. Some boundaries are there because we need them to be safe, but how many are there because of habit? Because we aren’t sure we can take that next step?What are your boundaries? What have you pushed past? ~Kristina​When I was pregnant with my middle child, I lost her twin brother at 20 weeks in utero. Due to a blood condition, my body attacked both babies and only she survived. After my daughter was born she was hospitalized with a condition called Failure to Thrive. At 6 months old she weighed less than 9 pounds. My baby was literally wasting away and no matter what I tried she would not gain weight. My daughter spent so much time in the hospital that she developed what they call Reactive Attachment Disorder. By the time she was finally considered well enough to come home, the damage had been done. She did not want to be held or touched and did not look to me for comfort. My tiny baby would pull away if I tried to touch her, and refused to look at me or her siblings. For three years I tried and failed to bond with her and no one could offer me any sound advice. I began concentrating on the things that I could work on with her; language, balance and coordination. My daughter was enrolled in a children’s play therapy program and yoga was recommended. Her yoga therapist was an older woman, short and slightly heavy. Not the yoga instructors I had seen or heard about, so I had my doubts. My daughter went to see her instructor two days a week in addition to her other therapies. She did the poses as instructed as long as no one touched her, but her eyes were always vacant and it felt like she wasn’t really there. Her teacher had a soft heart for children and talked to me every day after their session. We tried different techniques with her; dimming the lights, playing music, burning candles. She taught my daughter how to breathe, and had me sit and mirror her. Her teacher would talk about our breaths and how they connected us, and how what they were doing for our bodies. My daughter continued to go to yoga for almost a year, and I saw vast improvement in her poses and coordination. Then one day, at the end of her session, her instructor asked my daughter to blow out the candle as she normally did. She walked over, blew out the candle and turned toward the door. My now 4 year old baby turned back around to where I was gathering our shoes and hugged me for the first time ever. Both the instructor and I broke down crying. After that day she showed me massage techniques to use with my daughter, and simple touches that would help strengthen our bond. We continued to see her for another year before we moved. Saying goodbye to that instructor was one of the hardest days any of us had. Yoga had opened up a connection for my daughter and given her back to me. Fast forward 10 years and I was on a HWHV retreat where we were going to do yoga. Yoga held such an amazing place in my heart that I struggled internally with it. I have always been a rough and tumble, rock climbing, swimming athlete. Yoga didn’t really make sense to me. I had seen its power, but I couldn’t access it. I struggled with the poses, and the breathing eluded me. I felt clumsy and silly, and angry with myself. I know how healing yoga can be, I know its benefits, why can’t I access them? After the retreat I forgot about yoga. I turned my back on it. I had failed yoga. I tucked away my mat and never looked at it again. Then came the next retreat. This time yoga decided I needed a wake up call. This wake up call came in the form of a stinkbug that went up my nose during childs pose. THAT was a wake up call for sure. After I finally got the scent out of my brain, my fog began to clear. Yoga was calling me back. It may not have been the nicest wake up call, but it did wake me up. Yoga was reminding me of what I had forgotten. There is power here. I may always struggle with yoga. I may never do complicated poses. But I am still here, and I am still trying. Tomorrow, I will try again.

Retirement is something that is suddenly happening everywhere, in every branch of the military.Full retirement, partial, medical, it seems that every time I turn around, one of my friends or one of their friends is getting ready to start the last stretch of their time with the military.But where does that leave us? How does it change our relationships? How do we prepare?The same as we’ve prepared together for every other step of our journeys. Together.​“Terminal leave has been approved” came my husband’s voice over the phone. “We’ll be out of here in a few months. Goodbye Army!” He sounded happy, but I could hear a slight catch in his voice. This is actually real. All the talking, the planning, the excitement… now it’s actually real. All of these years we have been planning for someday. Pushing through deployment, a cross country move, a move one state over, and then another state over, standing up a new unit, surgery, another cross country move, another surgery, trainings, late night conferences, long weekends away. Missing birthdays. Missing holidays. Missing first steps and first words. All the while we kept saying “Someday we’ll retire and this will all be behind us.” We would get excited and loved planning all of the things we would do. Now retirement is only a few months away. A few months is a lot scarier than “someday”. All of the things we have been planning for years are suddenly almost upon us. Instead of being excited, I am afraid. I have been an Army wife since the day after I turned 18, minus a year there in the middle. This is the only life I know as an adult. It’s the only life my children know. I didn’t think I would be afraid to leave this life. I have been waiting for this day for so long that I just assumed I would be overjoyed. Don’t get me wrong, a part of me is. The other part that I didn’t know about is terrified. How do I leave a life? My sisters? My friends? All of the people who have touched my life? After journaling, and meditating, and talking to several friends, the answer is… I don’t. I may be changing my ID card, and clearing out of housing, but I am not leaving this life. It is a part of me. It is part of who I am. This life has helped shape me into who I am. The roughness has smoothed some of my jagged edges and polished me a bit. I am very proud to say that some of my edges are still there, because I haven’t let it change me completely, but it has softened a few. This life has seen me at my brightest, and seen me at my darkest. It has given me the people and tools to keep going. I have kept in contact with friends from each duty station. Our first station, the friends I met as a childless teenage newlywed. The ones whose babies played with my babies, the babies that are now teenagers. From our second duty station. The ones who went through my exes injuries, his depression, abusive behavior, and my divorce. Moving home and my re-marriage to another soldier. A deployment and five more duty stations. A career that allows me to meet other spouses who impact my life in amazing ways. They are all still here. In a few months when my husband retires, they won’t disappear. They will go with me on this new journey. This family that I have formed along the way…they aren’t going anywhere. They will be here to catch me when I stumble. To share in the excitement as we explore this new life. With that realization, I breathe a little easier. “Hello retirement, I can’t wait to meet you.”

Often times, life does not turn out the way we thought it would.Not yet having children myself, I can not yet fully understand what it is like to watch, unable to “fix it”, as my child becomes a stranger.To reach out to comfort them, and be treated like a stranger.And the long, hard struggle to help not just them, but yourself adjust to the new reality, to realize that this is not a situation that needs to be “fixed”, but adjusted to.I never imagined it would be so difficult being my son’s mom. I never imagined I would be at the receiving end of DAILY phone calls from the principal at his old elementary school saying that my son ran away.Again.Or that he was hiding under a coat and behind a chair not allowing anyone to touch him. That he would cover his ears and scream at the top of his lungs if someone did touch him. I never imagined that he would have to have a “shadow” in the 3rd grade, just to make him feel safe in his own classroom.

I never imagined having a child who didn’t know how to make friends, and didn’t even care that he didn’t have any. A child who would spend an entire night staring up at his ceiling because he couldn’t sleep. I never imagined having a 9 year old who needed cues in order to properly use the bathroom, wash his hands, brush his teeth, or take a shower. A boy who is so terrified of haircuts and shots that it takes 4 adults to hold him down for either one.

I never imagined a child who was so terrified of babies and small children that he would run away from them. If they followed him, he would become like a wild animal backed into a corner, fighting and growling until he was rescued. Becoming so scared and upset that he would become aggressive toward a much smaller child.

I never imagined a child in kindergarten who would accidentally get on the wrong bus after school, and then get off at the store 3 miles from home because the driver said casually “Last stop, everyone off.”I never imagined having a little boy lost at the state fair because he walked ahead of his grandparents out of the gate and didn’t notice them stop at a booth; then refuse to come back inside the gate because the sign said “No admittance without ticket.”

I never imagined banging my head against a wall for two years with doctors, teachers, and people, including my own family who were “trying to help” who insisted there was nothing wrong with my son that a good spanking, or better parenting couldn’t cure. I never imagined my own sister telling me it might be best to put my son into a group home. I never imagined doing hours of research, changing diets, looking into alternative therapies, and over a years worth of trying to “fix” him. I can’t count the amount of money I spent, or the hours I invested, and the endless battles we fought, only to realize that this is not something that needed to be fixed. “I” needed to be fixed.It wasn’t supposed to be that way.I never imagined I would be working full time, and trying to figure out how to parent such a frustrating child. The hours of therapy, the special staff it took to make his school year successful. I never in my life imagined how heartbreaking, and yet at the same time relieving it was to get a diagnosis for him. I finally had answers, but with those answers came even more questions.And every day, more questions.When I was pregnant with my son, my first born, I hoped, wished and prayed for a healthy baby. When he was born, he was perfect. Big brown eyes, and blond curls. He was a very happy baby; he never cried, even when he was hungry or wet. He smiled and cooed and laughed.At his 6 month check up his pediatrician noted in his chart ” smiling, happy baby – lots of drool.” I kept that paper. That was my son. He caught everyone’s attention and was the perfect angelic cherub. He met every milestone on time, and with gusto. He was patient and generous. He loved his sisters and didn’t even fight back when they were mean to him (and oh boy were they mean to him!!).Then over time, he changed.Autism crept into his life and slowly stole that little boy away from me. I don’t know when it started, I guess there were always signs, but nothing serious.When we moved from Hawaii to Alaska that is when I noticed the huge change in him. At first I thought it was because of the move, and drastic climate change, but the changes never went away.He became lost in his own world. His patience turned to impatience, and did not want anyone to touch him. He became unaware of anyone else’s personal boundaries, sitting in their laps, hugging them, or body slamming them, but if they tried to touch him he freaked out.Me included.He would come and sit on my lap, but if I wrapped my arms around him, he stiffened and tried to get down. He became aggressive and angry, frustrated by his own inability, and fear of failure.My son is now 14 and stands taller than me.Years of one on one interventions, therapies, social groups, and home schooling have shown a huge improvement in him. He is more aware of himself and his environment. There are still many struggles, but he laughs more, and loves more. Every day is a step further in his life.Do I still worry about him?Of course.I worry every day about his future.I worry about my ability to parent him successfully.I worry what he will do when he grows up.Will he be able to handle the world by himself, without his therapists and his cue cards? Will people accept him for who he is, and stop trying to change him? Will he continue to grow and be able to manage his moods and idiosyncrasies to function in society?I don’t know. I have hopes that he will find his niche, whatever it may be, and flourish in it.Will he ever meet a woman who has the patience and understanding it will take to be his wife?I don’t know. I think of her every night. Wherever out there in the world she is, I hope she is well and happy and is open to meeting a boy like him someday.Will he ever have children? He says he won’t, but I hope if he changes his mind that someday he will know the feeling of holding his own child in his arms.To feel the love for someone that I feel for him.

We spend a lot of time working on our “No”. On our boundaries, and how to keep ourselves ok and healthy while being there for others. This is a good thing, as so much of our lives as military spouses involves having to say “Yes” even when we don’t want to.Sometimes, though, we get stuck in our “No” voice. In the comfort of being able to say “No” to something, because we can, because it’s safe.And we forget that while we are working on saying “No”, and meaning it, we also have to work on our “Yes”, and meaning it. When “Yes” has become something you say just to get it done, to get through what has to happen, what is required, we forget the beauty and joy in a “Yes” that we really mean. What if you only used your “No” and your “Yes” to mean what you really meant? What if you let your “Yes” be joyous, and as available as your “No”? What if you let “Yes” happen, just because?“May I take you somewhere?” My husband asked when he picked me up from the airport.I kind of have control issues.I like to be the one who plans things, or spontaneously decides to embark on an adventure.I am not very keen on surprises.I almost said no, but he seemed so sincere and hopeful.What if I say yes?I have been concentrating so long on making sure to appropriately use my “no” that I forgot I also need to say yes.I need to say yes to the silly requests my children make, and yes to the excursions my husband plans (or even the ones he doesn’t plan!).Sometimes I need to let go of the control and let someone else guide for awhile.Saying yes led me to an overgrown trail down a slippery hillside.Tangles of vines and fallen logs covered the path and plenty of places could have been considered hazardous.I think I must have asked “Are you sure this is a trail?” and “Where are we going?”at least a dozen times.He pulled me and coaxed me along as I laughed and told him he was crazy.The trail was dark in places, with branches hanging over.Moss covered rocks turned simple walking into a death defying balancing act.We walked, slid, climbed and shuffled for what seemed like an hour before we came across a walking bridge.He looked at me and I shrugged.Grabbing my hand he led me across.When we got to the other side, we were on a cliff overlooking the water.The day was kind of dreary as it tends to be in this part of the world, but the view was beautiful.Through the mist we could see sailboats in the water, and a sea lion enjoying the day.We sat down on the cliff and talked for hours, about everything and nothing.We were soaking wet, dirty and smiling.As we turned to leave, we saw another small trail that veered off to the left.We decided to see where it led, and followed it.Within 100 feet we turned a corner and were walking toward a parking lot.Apparently he had misread the map and we parked in the wrong spot. I’m pretty sure that was the best thing that happened to us that day.So what happens if I say yes?A very memorable day. Sometimes the best adventures happen by taking the path less traveled.

Devin

"I AM - The two most powerful words, because what you put behind them shapes your reality."

MY STORY

I don't ever know how to define myself. I am forever changing, and growing. So who am I? I am Mom, wife, sister, and friend. I'm a reader. I'm a taker of pictures, an animal tamer, a tree climber, and an ocean watcher. I am kind. I seek adventure. I am shy. I am the maker of the most amazing red cinnamon apple pie. I am impatient. I am a swimmer. A rock climber. A lover. A work in progress. I am ME. There are facets of myself that I am still discovering. The one thing I do know about myself, is that Her War Her Voice gave me a place to explore those facets and a chance to find my voice again. Now I am here, hoping to offer that chance to others. You can reach me any time at devin@herwarhervoice.com